The Book of Vomit

A beauty rests against a tree.
Feminine, Soft. Her features,
Stunning.
The sun captures the path
between her breasts
and armpits, kindly.
Curls grace her marble skin
and collapse at her shoulders
soft, and silent.
Perfection
aches this young girl
to her gullet.

While turning the pages
of a book soaked in vomit,
Soaked in the colourful insides
of another genius, she reads.
She reads the bile and acid,
with her pretty eyes.
She reads the Scriptures,
at her pretty fingertips.

Grass curls around her Toes,
Leaves fall and kiss her Ankles,
the Wind tickles her Cheeks,
The earth is praying, pleading
to be written by such a beauty.

But stories crave Vomit.
They crave the truth, raw
and Undigested.
They crave our insides.
And Perfection
aches this young girl
to her gullet.

Nikki Satira

Banquet in the Sky

Behold!
Our glorious banquet in the sky.
Where our fate remained ill,
yet drunk in its own estate.
Pianists, and Violinists came,
from all over the globe -
to play our righteous tune
As well as some unexpected visitors.
In the dew of clouded minds,
a white bird, no more than
the size of a human heart!
Perched itself below the stars
and tried to harmonize
with our song.
Our feast was disrupted
Until we played louder.
Until we tore open
the bird's gullet
and Consumed its innards.

Nikki Satira

Clay Children

On Badlands,
Surrounded by
Silence and
Greenery,
Children played
in the Coal Stria,
and Red Scoria.

They were young,
Small, agile,
innocent,
Drawing circles
as suns
without prompting,
Learning, laughing -
Moulding,
and shaping
to fit.

Much like the Clay.

Their Father
Yelled, he was tired
Their Father
Grabbed, their tiny arms
and dragged them into
the car.

He promised them
His lies,
that they would return,
when the leaves
changed colours again.
That next time,
they would stay later
and play longer,
That next time,
He would keep
His anger at home.

Then he wiped
the Red clay
off of his hands.

Nikki Satira

Carbon and Dust

The musty scent
of screaming words,
muffled like mouth-less folk.
Rituals shelved
in static light,
you call them books -
I call them Ghosts.

A collection of pseudonyms
Of fallacies, and truths
Of myths and hearts
On pages,
Lost
in Carbon, Words,
and Dust.

In this morgue today,
in this library
of decay -
full of history,
Silenced and Null
It's almost as if
the books are all Ghosts
and were never
written at all.

Nikki Satira

Wasteland

This world,
these cities
are a wasteland.
This earth,
this soil
is a waste.

Nikki Satira

Bones and Apples

The fruits of the past
Excite,
Delight my palate.
Flavours of fire Ignite,
and Dwindle on my tongue.
Dust, and Calcium
Oil and Carbon.
Yum.

But they don’t like History,
like me.
They don’t want Bones,
in their fruit trees.
They like their apples
Clean.
But fossils
planted these trees.
Their history is in all of us,
in Me.
Fruits cannot Exist,
without history!
Soil must have Fingerprints,
to grow Fingerplants.

So I shake a tree,
Angry.
A shower of
Bones and Apples
fall to my feet.
Apples are nice,
But it’s the Bones
that make them sweet.

Nikki Satira

Dandelions

I saw a child pick
yellow flowers
and weave their stems
into a crown.
Dandelions.
The bugs were crawling
in and out
from between the petals
and a mother
shouted at her daughter.
Pests, she said.
Get them off your head.

I saw a child pick
yellow flowers
and put their bodies
into a glass of water.
Dandelions.
They were wilting
but still they resigned
gracefully
and a father
shouted at his son.
Weeds, he said.
They are lifeless, dead.

I saw a young boy and girl
holding hands
in a field
of yellow flowers.
Dandelions.
They held no knowledge
of weeds or pests
and let the colours
of the flowers
greet their youth.
Flowers, they sang.
And they danced in the dandelions
in the rain.

Nikki Satira